Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Chapter 40

Frank Talk

Matt sat in his living room directly above Temple’s. He was glad she couldn’t see through ceilings, or read thoughts. His fingers were entwined, prayerfully, but the grip was white-knuckle tight and he didn’t know what to pray for.

He ran what he knew through his troubled mind.

Two armed and masked people in Darth Vader–like garb had confronted members of a secret cabal of magicians calling themselves the Synth. They’d invaded the group’s hidden clubrooms at the now-defunct Neon Nightmare club. Temple had just found and entered the scene, undetected. So apparently had Midnight Louie and his alley cat cohorts.

Matt had seen the cat act as Temple’s guard dog and realized Louie shared a remarkable bond with his onetime rescuer. So Matt wasn’t surprised that a gang of cats had gone feral-wild and attacked the invaders from behind, climbing their robes and clinging to their masks and inflicting multiple claw trails on their bodies.

Matt supposed it was like having Freddy Krueger’s razor-tipped gloves slicing you on Elm Street. He’d never liked horror movies, but he’d had one razor wound from Kathleen O’Connor that earned her the Cutter nickname. He remembered the painless puzzlement of the strike and then the shock and burning sensation. That was just from one cut. Having your body used as a scratching post for a pack of fifteen-pound cats clawing and hanging from your skin would be like medieval torture.

No wonder the corny but scary shrouded figures had dropped their weapons and escaped the way they’d come.

Now a prominent international artsy architect had been found stripped and striped with vertical healed wound tracks on his rear torso and legs. One Darth Vader down. One to go.

Neither Temple nor Max knew—and could not know—that Matt had been blackmailed into consorting with the number one suspect for the role of Darth Vader Number Two. Kathleen “the Cutter” O’Connor.

He looked at the expensive watch the TV producers had given him as part of the courting procedure for his own TV talk show. It was only 5 P.M. His Midnight Hour advice radio show ran from midnight to 2 A.M. By two thirty he’d be at the Goliath locked into another battle of wills with Kathleen O’Connor.

She needed to prove any priest, even an ex-priest like him, was corrupt and seducible. He needed to keep her busy so Temple was safe. He could tell no one.

Now, he needed to see the bare back of her torso and legs to discover whether or not she’d been with Santiago that Neon Nightmare night.

Dear God, how was he going to do that without confirming her contention that all men were corrupt? Without losing all chance of keeping her hooked on an interaction that was more about finding and growing some tiny remnant of trust in the heart and soul of a psychopath than playing cat and mouse with a career seducer.

Drugs? Was there something mild but effective he could dose her with? Kinsella might know, but Matt couldn’t do anything that might make Kathleen’s other targets aware of Matt’s desperate game. Kinsella would be sure to interfere and defeat the whole point.

His cell phone rang. He jumped as if guilty of something, then dragged it out of his pocket. He hesitated to check the caller ID, hoping it wasn’t Temple, because he’d have to lie to her again.

But the caller wasn’t Temple.

“Frank,” Matt said, hearing the unconcealed relief in his voice.

His spiritual director from seminary heard it loud and clear. “Matt. Anything wrong?”

“Uh, no. Just a lot of stress at work.”

“You’re the one who made yourself a nightly sitting duck for every crazy out there in Radioland.”

“Only five nights a week, and most of them are just uncertain and lonely, not crazy.”

“Listen to you.” Bucek chuckled. “Made to minister.”

“Everybody’s gotta have a vocation,” Matt said, a bit offended by the glib line.

“Listen, I’m in Vegas. This is sudden, but are you available for dinner?”

“Yes.” Matt jumped at an unexpected lifeline. Maybe he could get some inspiration from a veteran ex-priest now in law enforcement. “This another quick visit?”

Bucek’s vigorous baritone didn’t boom right back. “Uh, no. I’m staying for a while this time.”

His tone and the vagueness told Matt his former mentor was not going to reveal more. Handling anonymous calls in the night had sensitized Matt to vocal nuances.

“Great, Frank. Where do you want to meet and eat?”

“What else? A steakhouse. How about Planet Hollywood at seven?”

“Done.”

“I’ll make reservations. It’ll be good to see you again, Matt.”

Matt echoed his sentiments and put the phone on a sleek gray cube table fronting the long red vintage couch. Temple had found the ’50s sofa for him when he’d been new to Vegas and didn’t have a stick or stitch of furniture.

Soon they’d all three be moving in together, he and Temple and Louie, one small happy family.

If he could excise Kitty the Cutter from their lives. He hoped that wouldn’t come down to razors.

* * *

The Strip House steak house at Planet Hollywood reminded Matt of a Chicago or Manhattan venue, very red with black-and-white photos on the wall, like Sardi’s famous theatrical district restaurant in Manhattan. Sardi’s featured Broadway stars on the wall. This was Vegas. Vintage black-and-white semidraped pinup girls ruled here.

As Matt glanced at, comprehended, then studied the “art” work, he realized it was highly appropriate to his current problem: how to undress a woman without any sexual element in the act whatsoever.

“You’re looking a bit glum,” Frank said as Matt joined him at the table.

“Just thinking about logistics.” That was true.

“The wall art is a bit racy,” Frank said after they’d ordered drinks, “but the steaks are prime. So what logistics are you wrestling with?”

“Temple and I are getting married.”

“Finally! When, where?”

Matt laughed. “You’re reading my mind. Those are the big questions. My family wants a big Polish Catholic wedding in Chicago. Temple’s parents are Unitarians in Minneapolis.”

“That makes ‘ecumenical’ as complex as a corporate merger.”

“Yeah. Makes you want to run away to Vegas for a civil ceremony.”

“You live with an adjoining wedding chapel for the job.”

“You know about the landlady’s side business?”

“The Lovers’ Knot Wedding Chapel, sure.”

“I’m shocked.”

“That I suggested it or knew about it. I’m FBI now. I know everything.” Frank smiled as he sipped the scotch on the rocks drink in front of him.

“I find that declaration somewhat sinister, Frank.”

Bucek shrugged. “Business has brought me to Vegas now and again. This time I’m staying for a while.”

“Are Sharon and the kids coming to stay too?”

“No. I’m solo for now.” Frank glanced at Matt. “Now, wait a minute. Don’t worry. Nothing personal is going on. I’m just needed here for a while.”

“Terrorism?” Matt wondered.

Frank tilted his head from side to side in that maybe way.

Matt sighed. “My logistics problems shrink to atom size when that word comes into play.”

“Nothing that serious, Matt. I just can’t talk about it. Let’s get back to the wedding. We married guys always like more fellow sufferers.”

* * *

The steak had been great, and Frank’s humor made discussing the intricacies of marrying a non-Catholic more amusing than discouraging.

“You’ve got to think like an American nun,” Frank had said during dessert. “You’re not going to let a bunch of old guys in dresses in Rome affect what is good and true to do here in the USA. You know that, Matt. There’s been a big disconnect between many of the American faithful and the overseas hierarchy for a long time.”

Matt had agreed, but he couldn’t tell that to Father Frankenfurter from seminary, even though almost everyone from those days had moved on to secular jobs. He couldn’t say his real problem was how not to be seduced by a psychopath.

During a conversational lull, Matt considered he might be making a mistake in labeling Kathleen the way she wanted to be categorized. Maybe he should forget her horrible sins against everyone he knew, including him and herself, really. Maybe he should regard her as just another troubled person calling in because she needed attention.

He leaned away from the tiny after-dinner liqueur glass. “All the abuse issues aren’t likely to endear the Catholic church to Temple’s parents, Frank.”

“Child abuse crosses all faiths. And professions, for that matter. Anyone who wants to work with youth these days has to tread carefully.” Frank shook his head.

“So what is the worse sin? The violation of children or that our culture covered up that issue for so long? Even the social workers went hush-hush on it.”

“That the caretakers failed the children all the way up the line.”

Matt nodded. “How do you heal the survivors?”

“You know. Counseling.”

“Words won’t erase their total distrust of anyone.”

Frank eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t get that deep into this topic on your radio show.”

“No. But … I’m dealing with a person who’s actually turned to striking out against others. It’s hard to blame her. She’s a second-generation victim. And they are victims, legally and in every other way. We can have them rethink themselves as survivors, but that doesn’t do it for anyone who’s been so…”

“Twisted?” Bucek leaned closer to Matt and dropped his voice. “Matt, you sound like you’re taking on a job for a psychiatrist. I’d advise you to leave any abuse survivor who’s turned to violence alone. That person is a ticking time bomb. That person could turn to mass violence.”

“No. This one is acting out against the one decent person in her life.”

“You?”

“Not me. Not directly.”

“Indirectly? Good God, Matt. You’re on the brink of an insanely great career and marrying a woman you’ve been lucky enough to find and love later in your life than most men. Don’t mess it up with some crusade to save a nut job.”

Matt recoiled as Frank went on.

“‘Love the little children,’ but a psychotic abuse survivor is no one for an amateur to deal with. We have FBI profilers who’ve plumbed the depths of human misbehavior, and even they don’t personally interact with the damned.”

Matt nodded as Frank sat back, relieved, taking the nod for a concession.

Matt had been nodding to himself. Yes, he’d have to continue going this alone. Bucek wouldn’t be any help.

Matt just had to be something more than Kathleen O’Connor was. Something smarter. Something more determined. Something more stable. And fast.